


When it's broken

by Jezzax_j



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Based on a True Story, Emotional as fuck, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezzax_j/pseuds/Jezzax_j
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick was never the same after the band announced their hiatus, but you never thought his depression would result in this. Self harm trigger warnings</p>
            </blockquote>





	When it's broken

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a sequence of events that happened to me when I was a teenager. I brought up so many repressed memories for this and I don't know why?

The house was quiet, unusually so. Even when you called out Patrick’s name as you took your jacket off and threw your bag onto the kitchen counter, you were met with only silence. You had been leaving work early every day for weeks, the fear of leaving Patrick home on his own concerned you too greatly.

He had a series of breakdowns once the band announced they were taking a break. The sudden nothingness that surrounded his life after over 8 years of music and touring and the constants of band life took its toll on him quicker than anyone could have possibly imaged. He stopped playing guitar, he rarely sang; eventually be began to shut himself away from his best friends, his family, and eventually you. There were days where he would hardly speak, look, or touch you. Days where you’d find him lying in the exact same position as when you left for work in the morning, knowing he hadn’t slept since the night before.

Nothing seemed to help. He had been through countless doctors, doped up on god knows what, but all they did was make them worse. They turned him into a zombie. That was when the self-harm started. You were waiting for it to be honest. You suffered through it yourself when you were a teenager, a side-effect to shitty high school life. It was something you were prepared for; something you knew how to deal with when and if it happened. When it started, it wasn’t too serious. In the sense it was treatable, and you knew how to act around Patrick in the aftermath.

Your heart started to race as the house remained silent, adrenaline and concern flowing through you. You called out Patrick’s name again and again as you made your way up the stairs, gripping onto the handrail to steady your shaking body. This had never happened before. Patrick was always here, and he would always call out to you, no matter what state he was in.

You slowly open the bedroom door, “Patrick?” you whisper, wondering if he was actually asleep. Flicking the light switch on the room was empty, but the space in the bed where Patrick usually slept was dented, his pillow at an angle and the bedsheets half on the floor.

Stepping further into the room you noticed the adjoining bathroom light was on, the door ajar, “Patrick love? You in there?” you say as you make your way closer to the door. A sinking feeling begins to fill your body as you gently push the door open.

Patrick was in the bath, curled up into himself, his glasses fallen on the tiles. What was left of the emptying water of the tub was spotted a faint red as you followed the colour to the small, fresh wounds that dotted both forearms. He was sobbing to himself but didn’t look up as you grabbed the closest towel and dropped to your knees in front of him.

“Oh Jesus, Patrick”, you cried as you ran your fingers through his wet hair. You lifted the towel into your hands and took hold of both his wrists, applying as much pressure as you could. The cuts weren’t deep, but it was the quantity that concerned you. Kneeling as tall as you could, Patrick’s head came crashing down against your chest, sobbing erratically. You leaned your cheek against his hair, hands still firmly gripped on both his arms.

“Shh baby,” you cooed, “It’s alright. You’re gonna be fine.” His whole body was limp against the edge of the tub as he continued to cry into your shirt. You sat like this for what felt like forever, guilt and concern flooding through you. He didn’t deserve this. No one does. But you felt like a hypocrite even thinking that; recalling the days when you would wake up covered in your own blood, after downing a quarter bottle of alcohol and carving your body with whatever you could find. But you had no one back then. Patrick had you. And there was no chance you were letting Patrick go through this alone.

You released your grip on this arms and took the bloody towel away from him. His arms were still bleeding, but significantly less so. Dropping the towel on the floor, you lifted his head and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, “I’ll be right back ‘Trick. I just need to get you some bandages. I’ll only be a minute.” Patrick gave you a faint nod but still never met your gaze.

Running down the stairs you grabbed the first aid kit from the pantry cupboard, and ascended the stairs two steps at a time, afraid to leave Patrick on his own again. Not out of fear he’d hurt himself again, but not wanting to leave him any more isolated than he felt.

“Patrick,” you hushed as you entered the room, setting the first aid kit down beside the sink, “Pat, I need to get you out of this bath. But I need you to help me. Okay? Can you do that?” You bent down and wrapped his arm around your neck, your free hand leaning down to support his waist. With great effort you managed to pull him to his feet, his legs moving lazily as he stepped onto the floor. Walking him over to the toilet, you shut the lid and gently sat him down, his body slumping, head bowed. You opened the first aid kit, and grabbed a small hand towel, pouring alcohol solution onto it.

“This is gonna sting a little, and I’m so sorry. But I need to clean these Patrick.” You still hadn’t seen what blade he used, it was probably sitting at the bottom of the bath. But regardless, you couldn’t run the risk of infection. Gently you pressed the towel to his first arm, choking back a sob as Patrick cried out. “It’s okay love. It’s okay,” you hummed as you continued to clean up his arm, before moving to the other. Patrick continued to sob to himself as you smeared antiseptic cream over each wound before wrapping both arms in bandages.

When you had finished, you kneeled up and wrapped your arms around Patrick’s shoulders. Allowing him to cry into your chest. “It’s over now Pat. It’s over. You’re okay now.” You ran your hand through his hair. You had helped him through self-harm episodes before, but never one that caused this much emotional damage.

“How about we get you into bed ‘Trick? You’ll feel better after some sleep.” You got him up and walked him to the bedroom, helping him into a pair of boxers and allowing him to sit at the edge of the bed as you got changed.

The room was silent for a long time until you heard a small whisper of your name.

“Yes, baby?” You hushed walking over to him, setting yourself on the bed.

He turned towards you, meeting your eyes for the first time. He looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry” His voice broke as you wrapped your arms around him once more, his head falling into the crook of your neck.

“Oh God Patrick baby,” you could feel tears running down your cheek as you cradled his body. “Don’t you apologize, you’ve nothing to say sorry about.”

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he murmured into your skin.

You took him by the shoulders, looking straight into his blue-green eyes, “No you’re not. You’re not an idiot Pat. I mean sure you did a dumb thing, but it’s over with, in the past. You’ve gotta move on from what happened. You gotta keep moving forward.”

You took hold of his face, planting small kisses across his forehead, moving down to his nose and cheeks. “Patrick I fucking love you so much, and I’m not gonna deny the fact that you scared the shit out of me. This is closest I’ve ever been to losing you. But I promise you that’s never ever gonna happen Pat. Not if I have anything to say about it. We’re gonna get you help. You’re gonna get through this. I promise.”

You wiped the tears from his face with your thumbs. Your eyes swelling with the expression on his face. You wanted to internalize all the hurt, the self-hatred, the pain, that he has ever felt. Take all of it away from him, even for a moment.

You stood up and offered your hand, pulling back the bed sheets as he moved into bed. You rolled in beside him, surprised when he curled into you, wrapping his arm around your waist. Gently you began to stroke the skin of his shoulders with your fingertips, as you made soft shushing sounds in his ear, your best attempt at relaxing him to sleep.

Before you were about to dose off, you felt a small kiss against the skin of your chest, as Patrick mumbled your name.

“Thank you.”

“For you Patrick? Anything. I love you.”

“I love you too.” A phrase you hadn’t heard him say in months. It made you smile as you kissed the top of his head.

“Now try and get some sleep love. You’ll feel better in the morning.”


End file.
